


Long Live Jon Snow

by somethingscarlet13



Category: game of thrones
Genre: Get fucking ready guys, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:10:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7398118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingscarlet13/pseuds/somethingscarlet13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jon dies they don't get to him quick enough and then the body's gone and that's who they see in the front line of the whitewalkers. Jon snow, with the stab marks in his chest the only color on him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Live Jon Snow

Tormund was the first one to notice the body was gone. 

That moment would stay with him forever. Not only knowing that Jon Snow, the man he loved, was dead, but also knowing that now he was suddenly gone. 

Bodies didn't just up and walk away. Not unless....... Tormund shivered. He refused to beleive that had happened to Jon. The crow, his crow, was to strong to let those ice Devils take him. 

After noticing that Jon's body was gone, Tormund began to realize that nobody else seemed to notice the fact that their lord commanders body was missing. His thoughts in slow motion, he could only tell that they were shouting to one another, handing off weapons, things they would only do if they were preparing for a battle.

It confused Tormund. There was no one and nothing to fight. Why were they focusing on whatever it was instead of noticing, as he had, that Jon Snow had suddenly disappeared?

His mind still spinning, he tried to voice his anger in how little they cared, but a crash from the front gates overpowered what he was saying. 

There was another crash, and another. Some crow ran past Tormund, shoving something into his hand and muttering something that sounded like an apology before running off again, sword in hand.

It was all happening too fast for Tormund to process. Why were they fighting? What were they fighting? And for gods sake why didn't anyone seem to care about where Jon's corpse had gone? 

His words were slow, his mouth moving like molasses, his voice messy and slurred with shock, but someone had to say it.

"WHERE," he roared, "IS JON SNOW?"

And with the sound of something breaking, his question was answered.

White walkers. An entire wall of them. Corpses of all shapes and sizes, of age and gender, were suddenly flooding through the gates. 

And right in front, as if leading them, was Jon Snow. 

Tormund stopped breathing. No this couldn't be happening. Not Jon Snow, anyone but Jon. 

He gripped the object in his hand, realized only now that it was dragon glass, and promptly dropped it. 

He only realized he was crying once Jon was upon him, scratching and clawing and biting. Even through his black cloths, Tormund could feel how cold he was. Cold and grey, the only color on him being the red from his stab wounds. That and his eyes, which Tourmund refused to look at. Looking at Jon, his Jon, with those icy eyes would mean all this was real, not just some horrible dream.

Jon was stronger in death, and as he clawed and bit at Tormund, the gingers will to fight shrank. The same hands which tried to tear his skin off had not that long ago held his own hand. The mouth that was trying to bite away his flesh had not that long ago been the mouth he had kissed, often and passionately. 

With the scream of a banshee, Jon aimed right for Tormund's eyes....but Tormund stopped him and for the first time had to look into Jon's eyes.

They were too blue, an electrifying shade of almost white that held no love, no caring, no compassion. They were eyes that held demonic hunger. Eyes that held hellish furry. 

Eyes that told Tormund that there was nothing left of Jon Snow but his empty rotting shell.

And then he had the dragon glass in his hand again, and he was crying so hard he could see straight, only hope that when he shoved the glass into the body before him that it worked.

Work it did, and Tormund could feel the familiar weight of his beloved crow fade away, bursting into ice that settled all around him.

In that moment it was as if the rest of the battle had stopped too. There were no more sounds of war around him, no more cries of the dead and the dieing. It had all stopped, as if the ice itself had frozen the moment in time for all eternity.

Tormund thought for a minute that he had died somehow, and his first instinct was to look around for Jon.

But no, he wasn't dead. There were the remaining crows, helping each other to their feet. And there went the remaining white walkers, dragging themselves back into the snow beyond.

And then it hit him.

It had all been for show.

The while walkers had only come to make sure the nights watch, and Tormund, had seen their newest member. It was only after that member was dead did they leave. 

Those bastards. Those utter, complete bastards.

Tormund was still crying, numbly going along with the actions as somebody helped him inside, stiched him up, fetched him a blanket, and gave him something to drink. 

He couldn't sleep, so instead he waited until everyone else was before going outside.

There, in the exact place Tormund had killed him with the dragon glass, was Jon's sword, the one with the white wolf handle. 

Tormund had it in his arms in two seconds, holding onto it like a child to its blanket, wishing to all the old gods and the new that it had been him, not Jon. 

If anyone noticed Tormund with Jon's sword, no one commented on it. As far as they were concerned, Tormund deserved it for killing the undead lord commander. 

Not one of them knew the truth. The truth that Tormund kept the sword by his side as a reminder of his lost love. The truth that every day he hated the fact that he was alive and Jon Snow was not.

The truth that having the sword reminded him that Jon Snow was his, in life and in death.


End file.
